Cold
by Spongyllama
Summary: Sirius Black, in Azkaban. "All the small things in life that he had never really paid attention to now made all the difference." Angst. R&R.


A/N: Just your normal, Sirius is in Azkaban and angsting about his past fic. Hope it's good, I rather like it. There's a quote below: I thought the lyrics to this song fit Sirius' situation. Please review.

"Oh how I wish // For soothing rain // All I wish is to dream again //  
My loving heart // Lost in the dark // For hope I'd give my everything." -Nemo, a song by Nightwish.

**Cold**

Cold.

All he felt was cold.

Those icy chills that were sent down his spine every time he thought, every time he remembered....

Unbearable.

And then the dementors arrived, and the chills would be caused by something else, something horrible, something he couldn't stand.

He remembered: although his memory might be fading, courtesy of those damned hooded creatures, his mind was still intact enough to remember all those times. Not the best ones, but enough to keep him remembering that he was himself, and that no soul-sucking monsters would take that away from him.

He remembered.

He would always remember. Those times in Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends, those friends which he would never be near again, thanks to him. No....

No.

Thanks to Peter.

Yes, he blames Peter. He will always blame Peter, although he will always blame himself. What a foolish idea it was, convincing his friends to switch at the very last minute, switch with a man who was probably degrading himself to living as a rat.

If only....

If only he had gotten to Godric's Hollow just a bit sooner, they might have made it out alive.

And Harry.... Harry would have had parents. But no. No, because of Peter. And him.

Even if he got out, he wouldn't know where to start. Remus would surely refuse to speak to him, if the werewolf didn't go as far as to report where he was.

And Harry.... Harry would be given the wrong impression, like everyone else in the world. Peter had killed twelve people, and apparently himself... if only those Muggles hadn't seen what they thought they saw. If only they had seen the truth.

If only.

Then, God help him, he wouldn't be in this mess. He would be Sirius Black, the innocent. But no. No, instead he was Sirius Black, set to live his life in Azkaban until he died and was reunited with his friends.

His friends, his best friends, how he longed to have them back. He could sit easier in this hellish prison if he knew they were alive, with their son, happy and...living. But, once again, no. One simple mistake, and he had basically cost them their lives.

How many times in here has he thought about dying himself?

Every day. Too often, some might say – but then, those anonymous people would have no idea what he went through, day and night.

Those times, he cherished his Animagus form, he thought if he and James had never mastered transforming he would be a wreck, more of a wreck than he is now.

If that was possible.

His thoughts were the same everyday: _I'm innocent._ But that knowledge that he holds right in the palm of his hand isn't accessible to anyone else; an onlooker would call him insane.

Which he probably was. But not as much as the rest of the people here....

No, not nearly. All he heard, day in and day out – although he hardly had a way to distinguish between night and day anymore – screams, cruel Death Eater laughs, sobs, moans... the mixtures of insanity and depression, like a potion gone awry. Yes, potions, bubbling masses he would likely never see nor create again.

If he could be more secluded, he wouldn't mind. A fresh reminder of his days at Grimmauld Place, it was, being surrounded by what were basically the remains of family he had known, gone Death Eater and captured. All his family, however distantly. All his family, all insane.

They deserved it. Unlike him.

Or did he?

He longed for air without the horrible stench of decaying flesh, for food with texture, flavor, rather than that nauseating eyesore he had to eat to survive. He desired sunlight, the sound of birds chirping; all the small things in life that he had never really paid attention to now made all the difference.

He would die in here, he had the feeling. What would dying be like, he had to wonder.

Because all he had to do anymore was wonder. Wonder what life would have been like, wonder what the people he used to know were doing. Those old people he barely remembered better than fuzzy images, blurred like the shielded sun behind an overcast sky, a bright star in his mind but beyond his sight. The same way one can never catch rain in their hand, Sirius would never let the Sun envelope him in a cascade of invisible rays. Or rather, would never be able to.

He remained and would remain clueless of how long it had been since his wand had been snapped in two uneven, careless halves, and he had been thrown in this dank dungeon. Days crept by slowly, his only means of distinguishing them being how many times a dementor had drifted by his cell on patrol so far.

The dementors. He shuddered both at sight, at the thought, and with the freezing, invisible cloud around them wherever they went.

Why couldn't someone just realize, maybe he didn't kill those people? Just maybe, if he could have testified, could have saved himself, could have convinced someone....

But it was said and done. He was here, he would remain here, thus it would be.

Just like those words he had heard years ago, at Lily and James' wedding: "'Til death do you part." Until death does he part with Azkaban.

Unless he kept that one shred of hope, the one that in the future would have him swimming away in his dog form to track down the rat who had ruined his life forever.

'Til then...

All there would be was cold.

**A/N: I find Sirius angst just... amazing. Please review, it does wonders for the writer.**


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